The Old Man

He dug his old fingers into the ground and scraped away the loose dirt with his nails. The soil was dry and the worms were scarce. It had not rained in weeks and the heat baked the ground into fine brown dust. Behind him, the bayou flowed dark and slow and cut a narrow path through the thick canopy of grey moss tangled and hung upon the ancient cypress trees. The old man took his pliers from his tackle box and stabbed the earth with their point, breaking up the hard ground. He saw the tail of a worm wriggle deeper into the dirt. He grabbed its tail, working the dirt loose around the worm to bring it safely out.

"I got em, Jess," the man said over his shoulder. There was no answer.

He grabbed his cane pole and took the rusty hook in his hand. With care, the old man fed one end of the worm onto the hook, moved the worm down, and hooked his middle, then hooked him once more towards his bottom. He let the baited hook drop into the dust and adjusted the orange bobber so the hook would sit just above the bottom of the muddy bayou floor.

Satisfied with his setup, the old man bent slowly and picked his pole from the dust.

"Now we're ready, Jess," he said.

He swung the line out into the dark water. The orange bobber sunk once then settled still in the water. The man sat his pole on the bank and squatted down to watch the bobber. He ran his dirty fingers through his tangled grey beard and scratched his chin. Sweat ran down from his brow and the back of his neck. Thunder rolled in the distance.

"Here that, Jess? Thunder. Haven't heard that in a while."

He stared at the bobber, still and motionless in the unmoving black water, as if the heat had convinced even the water that it was too hot to flow. Thunder clapped again, this time louder, and closer.

A turtle poked its head out of the water near the old man's line. The turtle looked around and went back under.

"You stay away from my worm," the old man yelled at the turtle.

Just then, the bobber popped up and down, sending little ripples through the water.

"You damn turtle!"

The old man lifted the pole and checked his bait. The turtle had bitten the worm in half, leaving the rest dangling loose on the rusted hook.

"There's still enough left, Jess, to catch us some dinner."

He swung the line out and landed it softly in the water. Again, he squatted down and waited. Minutes passed, and there was no action.

Thunder cracked. The wind grew fierce and blew the moss sideways in the cypress trees. Rain began to pour down. The rain rippled the black water and brought to life the dark bayou.

The old man lifted his face to the sky and let the rain wash the dirt from his wrinkled face. He ran his hands through his beard, felt the refreshing coolness seep into his worn body.

When he looked to the water again, the orange bobber was gone, and the tip of the pole bent towards the water.

"We got him, Jess! Wooo!"

Quick as a young man, he grabbed the pole and raised it out of the water. The line was heavy and he struggled to lift it. The orange bobber appeared first. He pulled harder, the catch heavy and hidden by the black water. He arched his back and pulled with all the strength left in his frail, thin arms.

Finally, he lifted his hook out of the water and saw the turtle, large backed and heavy, appear on the end of the line. When the old man lifted the turtle out of the water, the turtle let go of the hook and dropped into the water, leaving the rusty hook swinging empty in the wind-driven rain.

"He got us again, Jess," the old man said. He stared into the water, rain-soaked and tired. "Guess we'll have to try again tomorrow."

The wind had calmed, but the rain came down harder. The old man turned and walked back up the trail into the woods. The trail was muddy now, and it made the walk back more difficult. About a mile up the trail, he came to a blue tarp strung between two trees. Under the tarp, there were cardboard boxes laid flat atop the mud, and various brands of beer cans strewn across the ground.

He leaned the cane pole against a tree and climbed under the tarp. The old man took off his soaked shirt and wiped it across his head and face. He wiped off his arms and bundled the shirt into a ball and laid down on the cardboard. He put the balled shirt under his head and stared up at the tarp, listening to the rain crash against the fabric. His stomach rumbled.

Maybe the rain will bring more worms, he thought.

"Tomorrow will be better, Jess," he said, staring at the tarp, alone and wet.

The old man closed his tired eyes, felt his worn body aching and old on his cardboard bed. He pictured Jess and the life that seemed so long ago when they were together, and things were different.

The old man fell asleep as the rain crashed against the blue tarp, and the thunder rumbled in the distance.